


Words Like Cocaine.

by doctorkaitlyn



Series: Age is Just a Number. [1]
Category: Walking Dead, Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Background Het, M/M, Past Tense, Slash, Underage Character, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-22
Updated: 2012-10-22
Packaged: 2017-11-16 19:31:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/543052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctorkaitlyn/pseuds/doctorkaitlyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glenn wakes up one morning to a strange man cooking eggs and bacon in his kitchen.  This in itself isn't unusual.  What <i>is</i> unusual is what happens after that.    </p><p>After all, it's not too often that you lose your virginity to the man your mother is sleeping with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Words Like Cocaine.

**Author's Note:**

> If I'm correct, this is the first new Walking Dead story I've posted on here. So huzzah for that! The idea for this story came around after I came across the film Fish Tank, which I haven't actually watched it, so I suppose the idea is somewhat based off of the summary. I've been working really hard on it for the past few days and I'm still a little skeptical but I hope you lovely readers enjoy it (even a little bit). xo.

Glenn knew that, theoretically, he probably should have been surprised that there was a shirtless man he'd never seen before cooking breakfast in his kitchen. But really, it was a common enough occurrence, so he simply continued on to the fridge and grabbed a carton of orange juice, drinking straight from it while he examined his mother's latest fling. From the back, he looked much the same as the other semi-anonymous men who had made their way through his kitchen at one point or another; fairly tall, semi-muscular, brownish hair. There were a few more scars than average littering his back but other than that, he seemed typical of his mother's week long flings.

Until he turned around. One thing that had defined the men who frequented his mother's company was their overall lack of good looks; decent bodies, usually, but odd faces. Except for this guy, who was staring at him with a quirked eyebrow and a lit cigarette precariously dangling from the corner of his mouth. He looked like a supporting character in a James Dean film, scruffy and not afraid to fight. His hair was just a little too long in the front, skimming over his eyebrows and almost hiding his hazel eyes. For lack of a better term, Glenn thought that he looked like a _man_ and suddenly, he realized he was a lot more interested in this fling than any of the others.

"Hi kid," the man said, taking a drag off his cigarette. "Want some eggs?"

"No, thanks," Glenn managed to respond, trying very hard not to choke on the orange juice he was still downing because _Jesus_ , had someone read his description of the ideal man? The man didn't speak so much as he _drawled_ , his thick Georgian accent making every word sound absurdly sexual. Being a seventeen year old man, Glenn tended to think about sex fairly often but he couldn't blame his hormones for finding the word eggs sexual. It was _definitely_ the drawl.

His mother had made a good choice.

"Glenn, how many times have I told you not to do that?" Speaking of his mother, she had just breezed into the room, wrapped up in her pink bathrobe, hair and makeup already pristine despite the early hour. He didn't bother answering her; they both knew that he was the only one in the house who drank orange juice. When she passed by him, moving to kiss the mystery man's cheek, he caught a rather strong whiff of her perfume, just as he expected.

"Thanks for cooking breakfast, Daryl."

 _Daryl_. It was a fitting name. But there was no point in getting too attached to it. Glenn knew that, by the time Friday came around, Daryl would be gone, replaced with someone else. It was a pattern he'd gotten very used to and he didn't expect it to be broken any time soon.

Understandably, when he came home and Daryl's truck was still parked at his house, he was more than a little confused. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. He was supposed to come home and, except for the breakfast dishes in the sink, there wouldn't be any sign that someone else had been in the house. Instead, the dishes were all done and Daryl was in the living room, sprawled across the couch watching some action film that looked vaguely familiar. What was even more strange was the fact that he actually acknowledged Glenn's existence, taking his eyes off of the television screen and saying _hey_ before Glenn could sneak up the stairs.

"Hi Daryl." Glenn didn't like the situation. He certainly wasn't going to complain about the fact that there was a (very) attractive man lying on his couch, even if it was an attractive man who was sleeping with his mother, but he didn't like the unpredictable nature of the situation. Even if his mother was a little unorthodox, she was predictable and he arranged his life around that. Having that rug pulled out from underneath him was not something he was looking forward to.

"Wanna watch?" Glenn ignored his first response ( _fuck yes_ ) and went with the second, far more appropriate one.

"Nah, homework to do. See you later."

"See ya."

***

When Glenn went downstairs to get himself some food, Daryl was still there, talking to his mother at the kitchen table.

When he woke up in the morning, he was gone again and for a few days, life went right back to predictable normalcy.

Then Friday came around and with it came Daryl's truck and life got confusing again.

***

Daryl generally stayed overnight only on the weekends. During the week, he usually had to work and only popped up for dinner before leaving once again. But there were certain exceptions to the rule. One school night (technically, Glenn supposed it was morning, seeing as it was one o'clock), he had stumbled downstairs to get a drink and nearly tripped over Daryl, who was sitting at the kitchen table smoking yet another cigarette. As soon as Glenn realized that he was there, he almost decided to say screw it and just head back upstairs. But he was really thirsty and he was sure that things wouldn't be that awkward, even if he did have a pretty big (okay, huge) crush on the guy, despite the fact he was sleeping with his mother.

He was wrong.

"What are you still doing awake?" In the light from the open fridge, Glenn could see that Daryl wasn't wearing a shirt and he slammed the door shut as fast as he could.

"I was too thirsty," he replied, leaning against the kitchen counter, safely away from Daryl and his shirtlessness. "What 'bout you?"

"Too hot." Now that was something Glenn really didn't want to think about. Daryl didn't give any other words of explanation and Glenn didn't bother pressing. The man really didn't talk too much, which was probably a good thing, because his voice had the tendency to make Glenn think indecent thoughts.

"How come I've never see you with any girls?" The question came right out of left field and Glenn couldn't help but laugh, nearly choking on his juice. He was actually shocked that his mom hadn't blurted out his sexual orientation the first time Daryl had come over. She had a tendency to do that, although it was usually to kick out anyone who disagreed with it. Much as she was strange, he did love his mother.

"Girls aren't exactly my thing, if you catch my drift," he finally managed to say once he'd stopped laughing. For a few moments, there was no response and Glenn felt uncertainty come over him. Daryl wouldn't be the first homophobe he'd had to deal with (that tended to happen when you came out of the closet at fifteen) but that didn't make dealing with them any easier. There was a quick flash as Daryl lit another cigarette and in the momentary glow of his lighter, Glenn could see that Daryl was staring directly at him, his hazel eyes full of something that he'd only ever seen in smut films.

He suddenly felt very, very exposed.

"How old are you anyways?" Glenn wasn't sure if he totally wanted to answer that question.

"Seventeen," he finally said, his throat suddenly dry for a reason entirely different than thirst.

"Seventeen." Daryl just repeated the word, punctuating it with an exhale of smoke and a blink of his eyes that somehow managed to promise very vulgar things.

When Glenn got back upstairs, he realized that Daryl wasn't the only one who found it too hot to sleep.

***

Things only got stranger from there.

Daryl seemed to make a habit out of showing up in the early evening when his mother wasn't home, at times when he must have known that she was still at work. It wasn't as if he could just kick the man out; he'd never hear the end of it. So all Glenn could do was retreat to his bedroom with the door shut tight and his headphones on, trying desperately not to think because thinking was not good, not when all your thoughts revolved around the forty something lover of your mother.

But that never worked. Invariably, at some point, he'd have to get up for food or a drink or to answer the phone and in doing so, he'd have to acknowledge Daryl's existence. The man was usually sitting on the living room couch, constantly smoking, watching whatever movie he could find on television. Even when he was watching something Glenn really liked, he never joined in. There was enough tension just walking past the living room, let alone being in it.

He knew he couldn't escape forever. Sooner or later, Daryl was going to figure out why Glenn was ignoring him; he'd overheard him and his mom talking and the man was not stupid. Once Daryl figured that out, Glenn was going to have a lot of apologizing to do and a lot of suppression of feelings, especially since, with the way things were going, there was a possibility that Daryl was going to become his stepfather. That was an entirely separate realm of weird that he didn't even want to think of.

Unfortunately, that moment came sooner than he'd expected. He'd tried his hardest to sneak downstairs without being noticed but, like always, Daryl had happened to turn his head and see him. The smile that formed on his lips was enough to make Glenn's stomach do something weird and flippy, something way beyond butterflies.

"You like James Bond, kid? There's a marathon on."

Well fuck, Daryl had found his kryptonite. For years, he'd been trying to watch all of the Bond films but he always missed the marathons and didn't have the money to buy the DVD's. After weighing the costs and benefits (for a microsecond or so), he immediately flopped down at the other end of the sofa, trying to sit as close to the arm as possible. Goldfinger had just started and for a few moments, things were actually tolerable.

Until Daryl spoke again.

"Kid, I ain't gonna bite you. Not 'less you want me to."

That was it. Glenn was off the couch and up the stairs faster than he'd thought possible. He had a feeling that Daryl had probably misread his actions, but it didn't matter. He wasn't running because he didn't want Daryl to bite him, he was running for the exact opposite reason.

"Glenn?" He honestly hadn't expected Daryl to follow him upstairs and knock on his bedroom door, his knuckles rapping quietly. "Kid, you alright?"

"Go away Daryl," he said, grasping the edge of his desk with white knuckles. "Please."

"Fine. But we're gonna have to talk about this at some point you know."

Glenn didn't go downstairs for dinner that night. He waited until Daryl's truck pulled out of the driveway before he risked leaving his room. His mother was still sitting at the kitchen table, giant grin on her face, black hair slightly mussed up. Even when his dad had been alive, Glenn didn't think that he'd ever seen her so content and he actually felt guilty. Even though he'd never made a move on Daryl, those feelings were still there and just their existence felt like a betrayal.

"You look really happy Mom," he said, kissing her head as he walked by with food.

"I am happy, sweetie. I really, really am."

Being able to feel guilt was really a pain in the ass.

***

It was bound to happen eventually. Glenn had accepted that fact and even though he still felt absolutely awful for what he was doing to his mother, he couldn't resist any longer. His willpower had finally given out.

It happened on another late night. Glenn couldn't sleep, hadn't been able to really sleep for weeks. Every time he shut his eyes, his brain treated him to the most obscene (and wonderful) mental images and they simply wouldn't quit. He needed fresh air. A few moments out in the frosty air would help.

He just hadn't been expecting Daryl to say his name as he walked by the kitchen.

"Glenn." It was more of a whisper than anything, like a gust of wind had just blown through the house. Daryl was sitting at the table, cigarette glowing per usual. The light above the stove was still on and it was that detail that Glenn knew had doomed him. The instant he looked at Daryl, he could see in his eyes what he was thinking and all he could do was swallow hard. Their fate was sealed.

"Yeah?"

"C'mere." Glenn did as he was told, heart thudding hard against his ribs as he stood in front of Daryl. The man's eyes were on his face, studying him like he was the most beautiful thing in the world. No one had ever looked at him like that before and he felt like his entire body was on fire. Stubbing his cigarette out, Daryl's fingers closed around his wrist, pulling him closer until he had no choice but to straddle his lap. Even without looking in a mirror, he knew that he was blushing and his first instinct was to look away. As soon as he tilted his head down, Daryl gently pushed it back up, two of his fingers lingering over his pulse point.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he sighed, shutting his eyes. He couldn't deal with the look Daryl was giving him; it was too overwhelming, all at once. "It's just…"

_Wrong. In so many ways._

"…I've never done this before."

"That's okay. We'll figure it out, won't we?" Glenn felt like he should have said something else but the instant Daryl kissed him, he lost the ability to speak. Daryl's stubble rubbed against his cheeks and he had a feeling that by the time they were done, his skin was going to be rubbed raw.

He wasn't sure if he was supposed to enjoy that notion as much as he did.

He tasted like cigarette smoke and experience, like cheap beer and promises and Glenn wanted more, so much more. His fingers were pressing into the back of Daryl's neck, pulling on his hair and holding on for dear life. Daryl's hands were on his back, palms flat like he was trying to memorize the feeling of his skin. He knew there were going to be bruises there the next morning; he'd always bruised easy, his skin turning purple and yellow from the merest infraction. He'd always been bothered by that but truth be told, he was rather looking forward to seeing Daryl's fingerprints on his back and his neck and his wrists.

"Jesus kid," Daryl murmured against his collarbone, his teeth running over it and if Glenn had any sanity left, that was the end. He stopped thinking his actions through and just went with it, letting his hands and fingernails and mouth do what seemed right.

It wasn't too long before he ended up on the floor, kneeling between Daryl's legs, his mouth filled with Daryl's cock. It was the first time he'd ever given anyone a blowjob and he was so glad that he'd waited, even if it hadn't been a conscious decision. Daryl was perfect; he didn't force himself down Glenn's throat and he didn't try to move hiss head with his hands. Instead, he just ran his fingers through Glenn's hair over and over again, groaning and murmuring words of encouragement that made Glenn's cock get even harder. By the time Daryl finished, his cum dripping from the corner of Glenn's lips, he felt like he was going to explode.

It took ten strokes of Daryl's calloused hand on him to do just that. He was embarrassed about how quickly he finished but Daryl had only chuckled and made him look at him, holding his chin in his hand.

"Don't worry Glenn," he said, his name sounding way more erotic than Glenn had thought possible, "we'll soon fix that."

***

The next time around, it was Daryl's turn to kneel on the kitchen floor. He teased until Glenn felt like his eyes were going to pop out of his skull and only then was he allowed to finish.

Rinse and repeat.

After only a few weeks, Glenn knew exactly what to do. He knew exactly what made Daryl tick, what made him curse and groan. He knew exactly how to stroke and lick and use his mouth and fingers to make Daryl cum hard.

The thought occurred to him, more than once, that what they were doing was wrong, just based on the age difference. He knew that there were plenty of teenagers who _fantasized_ about middle aged men but he couldn't think of anybody else who actually got to have the real thing.

He was pretty sure that if it wasn't illegal, it was damn close. But weren't all the fun things in life prohibited?

So he shoved the thought from his mind time and time again, tried his hardest to ignore the never healing bruises on his knees and got drunk off the power he possessed over Daryl.

***

He came home early from school one day, hoping to find Daryl alone. He had a plan that involved his bed, Daryl's cock and a copious amount of lube. He'd been thinking about it for weeks but thinking about and being ready for something were very different things.

But that day, he knew he was ready and when he opened the door, he expected to find Daryl sitting on the couch, just waiting for him.

Instead, he came home to find Daryl fucking his mother in the kitchen. She was sitting in his lap, her back to Glenn, moaning to high fucking heaven and Daryl's fingers were digging into her hips and Glenn could hear him groaning lowly, in that way that usually put a shiver up his spine.

On the way back out, he slammed the door hard enough to make one of the loose window panes fall out. If it had been any other situation, he would have immediately picked up the glass.

Instead, he kept walking and, with a hard lump of jealousy sitting in his stomach, he hoped that they both stepped on it.

He returned later that night to find the house empty and the glass cleaned up. Immediately, he grabbed the chair from the kitchen, dragged it outside and lit it on fire.

He still felt sick to his stomach but for the moment, he felt a little better.

His mother and Daryl returned a few hours later. He stayed in his room, door firmly locked, eyes fixed on his computer. Sometime around ten, he could hear her stop outside his door and just pause. He stared at the door, challenging her, just _waiting_ for her to knock.

After what seemed like the longest seconds in existence, she continued on and he sighed. He hated what Daryl had turned him into. He hated Daryl. He liked Daryl. Possibly, just maybe, he loved him.

It was because of that possibility that, when he heard a knock on his door an hour later, he let Daryl into his room with no fuss.

It was because of that possibility that when Daryl kissed him after staring at him for a few moments, he grabbed his hair and kissed back harder, kissed until he could taste blood in his mouth.

It was because of that possibility that he ended up on his hands and knees, face pressed into his pillow, biting back his moans as much as he could.

It was because of that possibility that when he woke up the next morning, there were fingerprints bruised onto his hips.

That same morning, when he walked into the kitchen to get breakfast, his mother grabbed him by the wrist and nagged him until he'd let her see the hickey that adorned the side of his neck. She shook her head and clucked her tongue but she was still smiling.

"Oh Glenn, I'm happy for you," she said, finally letting go of him, "but be careful, alright?"

"Yes Mom, I promise."

It scared him how good he was getting at lying to his mother.

***

"You're using me, Daryl." There was sweat covering his back and a bite mark on the back of his neck and Glenn couldn't breathe. He was drowning and Daryl was holding his head under water, only letting him up for a few torturous seconds before plunging him back under. Daryl was still on top of him, his cock softening against Glenn's thigh and he pressed his face into his neck, stubble tearing at his already red neck.

"I'm not using you Glenn," he whispered, his voice like liquid cocaine. "I'm using _her_."

Glenn knew that he shouldn't have liked the sound of that. But he did and it made him sick.

He knew what he had to do.

***

A few more weeks passed and all the while, Glenn tried to gather the courage to do what was necessary. He tried so hard to stop being selfish, to stop being such a goddamn hedonist. But it was so goddamn addictive, _Daryl_ was so goddamn addictive and he needed one more hit, just one, before he did what was right.

In the end, it ended up being an accident.

They'd been getting more and more reckless. He'd started skipping school so that he could fool around with Daryl whenever the man had a day off. They'd fucked on practically every surface in the house; on one occasion, Glenn had even sucked Daryl off in his mother's bed, combating disgust and smugness with every bob of his head.

Really, it was only a matter of time before they got caught.

He'd skipped school again. The truant officer was finishing her message on the answering machine but Glenn hadn't been able to pay attention to what she'd been saying because Daryl had him bent over the kitchen table. He'd been scratching at the already scarred wood, breathing in tiny splinters, so close to coming, when he heard his mother scream.

There'd been a lot of yelling and his mother sobbed and Daryl swore and smashed his fist through one of the kitchen cabinets but Glenn knew that it was worth it. He'd been too pathetic to just come out and tell his mother everything and really, they were all getting what they deserved: his mother was getting the truth, he was getting punished and Daryl wasn't getting either of them.

_I'm using her._

Not anymore.

***

It took a very, very long time for things to even approach the word normal again. His mother didn't kick him out but she more or less ignored him. In response, he threw himself into his schoolwork and when summer came around, he put everything he had into his job.

Anything to stop thinking about Daryl.

By the middle of summer, things were almost there. At the very least, his mother had started cooking for him again, which was certainly a bonus and for a few weeks, he could almost forget that Daryl had ever come into his life. He could almost forget that there'd been a time where he'd betrayed his mother in the worst possible way.

Almost.

But then one day, he woke up to another strange man cooking eggs and bacon in his kitchen. The man wasn't wearing a shirt, only a pair of jeans slung obscenely low on his hips and, even from the back, it was plain to see that he was fucking ripped. When he turned around and smiled, a warm genuine thing that was the very opposite of Daryl's smirk, Glenn noticed that there was a thin metal chain around his neck, sitting against his collarbone. Glenn wanted to hold it between his teeth, to taste the silver as it absorbed his moans.

"Morning kid. Your mom's told me lots about you. Name's Shane."

Somehow, he managed to make it through breakfast. But immediately afterwards, he ran upstairs, booted up his computer and started looking for one-bedroom apartments in the area.

He figured it was about time that he moved out.

***

One winter night, when he came out of his apartment building, intent on walking to the grocery store as fast as he could, Daryl was parked across the road. There was a cigarette stuck in the corner of his mouth and he just stood and stared, leaning against the side of his beaten up pickup. Even from across the road, Glenn could feel the sheer weight of Daryl's gaze upon him, tearing down his willpower like a sledgehammer.

His mom and Shane were doing very well; he had a feeling that they were going to be engaged by Christmas. He was doing great in college and he was somehow managing to balance out school and his job. All in all, things had been going quite well since he'd left home and he'd been trying so desperately not to screw things up. He'd become a better person.

Or at least he'd tried. Maybe he just wasn't destined to be a great person. Maybe he was a glutton for punishment. Maybe he was just sick of denying himself his addiction.

He didn't have a fucking clue but, sighing deeply, his breath visible in the cold winter air, he crossed the road.


End file.
